


Something He Carries on his Back, Which I am Forbidden to See

by Hexate (oppressa)



Series: Now I Know I'm Falling in Deep [4]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn with slight psychologizing, Sex as a form of emotional release, Spoilers for the end of Season 06, Trust Kink, Verbal Humiliation, as if this hot mess of a relationship has ever made any sense, have they ever managed to be rational about each other for more than 5 minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/Hexate
Summary: “You can hurt me, Ivar, if you'd like. I'd deserve it.”
Relationships: Ivar/Hvitserk
Series: Now I Know I'm Falling in Deep [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140578
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Something He Carries on his Back, Which I am Forbidden to See

**Author's Note:**

> Set the night after they arrive in Novgorod and partly inspired by a [deleted scene from last season](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Upvt3aB3sI&ab_channel=IGN) where the seer tells Hvitserk he sees 'crowds of people walking in a ring' before he talks about Ivar's death. Which I think is meant to be an allusion to the futility of existence in the Wasteland or something but fuck it I can relate it to traditional Russian dancing if I like.

The laughter and the dancing in Novgorod continues long into the evening, the bodies crossing infront of him beginning to turn into a blur. He loses Katia, lost Igor in the crowd long ago, his head is starting to spin from too much to drink. And he hasn't been able to catch a glimpse of Hvitserk in a while, so he decides to actively search him out, knowing he'll have more luck in finding his brother on the outside of the whirling circles, refusing any attempts to get him to join in. A throng of people pass and he sees him standing and watching against one of the pushed-back tables with his arms crossed and, not having indulged in the _Medovukha_ , an expression of mild disbelief.  
  


Hvitserk is still angry, but only at Oleg who just casually offered to get rid of him as though he were nothing, and at himself for being so easily corrupted despite being wary, despite listening to Ivar _tell_ him to have his wits about him. His brother really is so frustrating at times. Oh, _You don't trust me Ivar, whine whine whine._ Yet he can also prove strikingly resourceful when he feels like it, making his frailty for becoming unreliable on any drug available all the more how-can-you-be-this-stupid insulting. No matter what, Ivar is grateful for his information, his help in getting them out of Kiev, almost to the extent he's prepared to forgive that, forgive kicking him while he was down. Hvitserk always stirs up such conflicting emotions. It may have been entertaining for Oleg to play them off against each other, but it's harder than it seems to drive them apart. And he is ashamed, Ivar can see it, tense and quiet, avoiding looking in his eyes when he joins him at the edge of the celebration. It's enough to make him think, _Maybe nothing breaks us_.  
  


He greets him with a half-hearted smile, only touching the cup he hasn't drunk from to Ivar's when nudged, and a muttered “Yes, Skol.”  
  


“So, what are you unhappy about now we managed to escape? Feeling sorry you won't get to see Constantinople?”  
  


“Ah, perhaps I'll see it one day.” He makes an effort to level his eyes with Ivar's, gestures vaguely to his own face. “Ivar, about that, I'm -”  
  


Ivar holds a hand up, saving him the trouble. “I know. Forget it. I baited you.”  
  


He sighs, knowing this is how Ivar wins, by not letting him apologise. “Yes, but you were right.”  
  


“Well, not for the last time, my dear brother.”  
  


Hvitserk licks his lip, grins his easy vicious grin, shaking his head. “Bastard.”  
  


Ivar shoulders him, knocking him off-balance. “Now, is the sun going to come out or should I push you into this?” He waves his hand distastefully at the _Khorovod_.  
  


He expects the playful shove to be returned, and maybe another curse. Instead, Hvitserk shivers, almost _flinches_. The grin fades, replaced with a far away look on his face.  
  


Ivar's reminded how quickly things can change between them, from good to bad, bad to good. Still, he doesn't know what this is. He wishes no one around them would understand if he tried to find out, but as it is they will have to talk in private.  
  


He draws him into a tight hug, whispering “Try to enjoy yourself” in his ear, before pushing him away.

He comes to Ivar later anyway, looking for punishment, wordlessly throwing his sheathed dagger in Ivar's lap as he sits down next to him on his bed for what remains of the night.  
  


“Thank you. And this is for?”  
  


“It's for you to hurt me with, Ivar, if you'd like. I'd deserve it.”  
  


He frowns. “Why?”  
  


“ _Because_. We're meant to be careful with you. And I, I didn't stop even when I...when I knew you'd had enough-”  
  


Ivar draws the knife, flips it in his fingers, testing its weight, tapping it against his palm.  
  


“Hmnn, so confident I won't just kill you.”  
  


The answer to this is a gruff, “Yes.”  
  


Ivar nods, pointing it at him, straight at his heart, then waves it away in the air, gesturing him off the bed. “Well, get undressed.”  
  


He revels in how immediate his reaction is. After coming out the best of their fight in Kiev, Hvitserk is still his to command, it seems, pulling everything off until he's naked in front of him. He needed that victory, of course, in the long-delayed culmination of so much bad blood between them, so the ghosts are finally laid to rest, although Ivar is fully aware he will never let him off for Thora. Like he needs this now to make him feel he isn't this completely unrestrained monster, stopping just short of fatally injuring his crippled younger brother lying helplessly on the ground. Maybe to make him feel like he isn't quite as far gone down that road as Ivar went himself.  
  


He orders him to sit back down in the middle of the mattress while he finds the coils of rope they use to lead his horse in the saddlebags, using the knife to cut them into shorter lengths. Hvitserk glances up uncertainly when Ivar gives them to him, about to say something, a hint of a frown on his face. Ivar affectionately pats the side of his head, brushing back his hair, smoothing his cheek. _It's allright, brother_.  
  


“Bind your feet.”  
  


He snorts, like Ivar is so perverse, as if he instigated this, and then without further dissent pulls himself up against the footboard, obediently fastening first one, then the other, on either side. Without prompting he lies back and holds his arms up, wrists hooked around the posts, perhaps knowingly evoking the All-Father hanging on the World Tree, or Christ on the cross, showing how they've both been here too long. He lets Ivar secure them in silence as well, eyes cautiously but not nervously following his every move.  
  


Once the ends are knotted fast, Ivar bends to assess him, his brother's beautiful warrior's body, supple legs spread wide open, not even bent, his cock that got hard while Ivar was tying him heavy between them, curving up towards his stomach. Feet trying to gain purchase until Ivar tugs on those ropes, pulling the knots he made around his ankles tighter, putting an end to some of the restless shifting. He breathes in sharply, suddenly confronted with the reality of being in Ivar's complete control, letting it wash over him, thoughts rushing wildly through his mind at how much power he's given him, if this isn't a terribly fucking foolish mistake. That all adds to it, of course, his arousal, no getting away from that. Ivar loops the slack he left over and around the posts so he has even less room to move. Then he really does struggle for a moment, yanking fiercely on the bonds at his wrists as Ivar takes a seat at his side.  
  


“It's _enough_ , Ivar, fuck.”  
  


Ivar just smiles at him, already streaked in sweat, muscles stretching, a mouthwatering sight, and picks up the knife. Hvitserk watches it, still jerking fitfully as it comes closer, going motionless the minute it touches his skin, when Ivar starts tracing his dark nipples with the flat of the blade. It's cold on them, obviously, but pleasureable, increasing his excitement, from the way he rolls his head back, closes his eyes. Ivar resists the strong urge to go ahead and deal with that already, slowly dragging the tip over the ink laid beneath the skin to his right shoulder and down his arm, pressing down a little harder.  
  


He swallows and demands in his hoarse, authoritative, older-brother voice. “Take your clothes off.”  
  


Ivar savagely pinches his lips together. “Why don't you try and give this a rest, for now, huh? You don't get to tell me what to do.”  
  


He slides his fingers between Hvitserk's teeth, pushes his thumb in, touching his tongue, nails scraping lightly against his jawline. He bites down hard on it and then strains his head away.  
  


“Are you regretting it yet?”  
  


“No.”  
  


“Ah, but you would say that, Hvitserk, wouldn't you? You've forgotten I've always seen right through you. You don't have any conviction at all, just like our uncle. Even Oleg could buy you with the right incentives here and there. I wonder if you would have opened your legs for him in the end, like this. The least bit of praise goes a long way with you, doesn't it, you filthy, weak-willed piece of shit.”  
  


The knife strokes from the hollow of his throat to just under his chin, angling it upward. He stares at Ivar with wide, angry eyes but his face is flushed, his cock, if possible, grows harder at being spoken to like that, the first hint of moisture glistening on its tip.  
  


Ivar smiles again, takes the knife away, and whispers “Look at yourself.”  
  


His eyelids lower, and he blushes even deeper, cringing a little, shy, bashful, that it's so obvious what being worked up, frustrated and denied by Ivar does to him. And Ivar loves seeing what it does. But his heels rub against the bed and his knees lift as far as he can raise them, he would still kick him to the floor if he could.  
  


“If I'm such a coward then cut me and see what happens.”  
  


Ivar responds by idly running the knifepoint over his thighs, skimming inbetween them, pressing it into the softer flesh, dangerously high up.  
  


“What, like here?”  
  


He can feel as his brother tenses and withdraws the edge so quickly that it only leaves a fine, dark red scratch on the delicate skin, doesn't even start to bleed.  
  


“Nah, there's no need. I think you'll end up begging me to set you free anyway.” And also because he couldn't actually bring himself to do it.  
  


He curls his lip, shakes his head, letting his legs rest where they are, his well-shaped limbs that work perfectly, that carry him through battle at such a formidable pace, two strong, straight roads up to his very-much functioning cock that he takes absolutely for granted.  
  


For a second he experiences again his old pangs of jealousy, perhaps for Hvitserk in particular, perhaps for the same things that Ivar used to think meant he simply tolerated him the most, growing up. He was always fast, always graceful, even-tempered, seemingly untroubled except for a weakness concerning his brothers, uncovered when they pulled him in different directions. Ivar sometimes wonders where the love in him comes from, but it certainly hasn't made life any easier for him. After they left York together he grew more and more savage at any hint of regret, from a spiteful desire to rub it in his face, hoping that he felt like an idiot for jumping ship, that it tormented him, kept him awake at night, telling himself _you made the wrong choice_.  
  


Something apologetic about the remembrance of those days and of the time before when Hvitserk was Ubbe's territory makes him lay the knife down, in the interests of claiming him again, gripping both hands around the backs of his thighs, shifting him up, fingers drifting closer and closer to the cleft of his defenseless arse. As soon as Hvitserk realises what's happening, he balks, attempting to catch his attention with a string of invectives and an allmighty tug on the ropes.  
  


“Ivar... _gods_ , Ivar, what -”  
  


“You know _what,_ brother. Don't pretend to be so innocent with me.”  
  


He uses the cooled, soft wax from the remains of the burnt-out bedside candle to grease his fingers with, reaching under his brother's body, grudgingly poised as best he can to make it easier, at the same time telling Ivar through gritted teeth he's going to _fuck_ him, face down, on the floor, no oil, nothing, and he's going to scream so loud the whole of Rus is going to hear.  
  


“Yes, yes.” He interrupts, shoving his fingers quickly in and out, his brother's pained grunt tapering off into a groan. “But this does feel really good for you, isn't that right? Tell me.”  
  


Hvitserk curses at him, gasping when Ivar does it again. He breaks as he starts to push faster and faster into his slicked hole, keeps going until he has no words for it, only more and more desperate noises, panting, begging him for this, for that.  
  


Ivar finally touches him as requested, one stroke timed with a mercilessly hard shunt, buried in him up to his knuckles. He comes with a broken cry on his stomach, his cock in Ivar's fist, his convulsing body arched towards him, his eyes scrunched shut.  
  


He finds Ivar tussling his mussed hair as he comes around, stroking his forehead, kissing the soft space between the bones, then resting his own on Hvitserk's, murmuring  
  


“I'm sorry for that, my brother.”  
  


Hvitserk nods and smiles sweetly, suggesting breathlessly he should go and play with himself.  
  


Ivar laughs, and when he feels Ivar's exhalation on his mouth he opens it, indulges him in a deep, satisfying kiss, thrusting against Ivar's tongue with his as best he can, trying to bite his lips as he draws away in order to cut him free.  
  


Once released he gets the knife from Ivar with the speed of a snake, fitting his legs around his back, holding him with it at his throat. Slipping his other hand into Ivar's britches with the rope still around his wrists, kissing his neck gently, hissing in his ear that he's going to force Ivar to spill his seed in them whether he can really get it up enough to go into a woman or not, so that Ivar can feel his teeth against the lobe.  
  


This is Hvitserk who gleefully hacks people to pieces on the battlefield like carefree, laughing death, who could have had another future far more appealing to him as part of a conquering army in the east, had fate not intended otherwise, to keep them together til the end. This is the one he needs for himself, to unleash upon their enemies, to disagree with, to offer the world to, to kill if he must. And thankfully he has him back again, after all of this, praying to the Gods that it's for the last time.


End file.
